That night in Ayodhyā was heavy with sorrow. King Daśaratha, his heart shattered by the exile of his beloved son, imagined where Rāma must be at that very moment. “Today, surely, somewhere in the wilderness, he must be resting at the foot of a tree,” the king thought, his mind filled with anguish. He pictured Rāma lying on hard wood or cold stone, rising from the earth covered in dust, sighing deeply—like a mighty elephant emerging from a lotus pond, majestic yet forlorn. The king’s mind wandered further, envisioning the forest-dwellers beholding Rāma, that long-armed lord of men, walking among them as though he were unprotected. His heart ached for Sītā, the cherished daughter of Janaka, who, accustomed to every comfort, would now tread the thorny paths of the forest, her feet weary and pained. The wild, unfamiliar sounds of the forest—deep, hair-raising roars of beasts—would surely fill her with fear. Overwhelmed by grief and bitterness, Daśaratha turned his thoughts to Kaikeyī. “Be satisfied, Kaikeyī,” he lamented. “Live as a widow and rule the kingdom, for without that tiger among men, Rāma, I cannot endure life.” Surrounded by his attendants and courtiers, the king entered his splendid palace, but he resembled a man who has washed after a great misfortune—cleansed, yet not cleansed of sorrow. As he gazed upon Ayodhyā, the king saw a city transformed by grief. Courtyards and houses stood empty, markets and squares were closed, the people wandered about, weary and distressed, and the grand roads were deserted. The entire city seemed to think only of Rāma. Lamenting, the king entered his house, his spirit dimmed, like the sun retreating behind a cloud. But the palace, once vibrant with life, now felt hollow—deprived of Rāma, Vaidehī, and Lakṣmaṇa, it was like a great, tranquil lake whose serpent had been snatched away by Garuḍa. Choked with emotion, Daśaratha spoke gentle, sorrowful words. “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother; for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” The doorkeepers, attentive to his command, led him to Kausalyā’s dwelling and settled him there with reverence. Yet, even lying on her bed, the king’s mind could find no rest. The house, empty of his sons and daughter-in-law, seemed to him like the night sky bereft of the moon. Overcome, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He envied those who would live to see Rāma return and embrace him again. Night fell, dark and oppressive, as if the very soul of Daśaratha was being consumed. At midnight, he turned to Kausalyā and spoke in a faint voice, “I do not see you, Kausalyā; touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return.” Seeing her husband lying there, his thoughts fixed only on Rāma, Kausalyā sat by his side, overwhelmed with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. Thus began a new chapter of sorrow in the royal house. As the king lay weakened by grief, Kausalyā, tormented by the loss of her son, addressed her husband. “O tiger among men, now that Kaikeyī has expelled her poison against Rāghava, she will roam freely, twisted in her ways, like a serpent freed from its old skin. Having exiled Rāma and achieved her desire, that wicked woman will terrify me again, like a venomous snake lurking in the house. “Now, in this city, Rāma will go from house to house, begging for alms. At her whim, you would even grant my own son as a servant. At Kaikeyī’s will, you have cast Rāma down from his rightful place, as if he were an offering thrown to demons at a sacrifice by the fire-priest. “That heroic, broad-armed, bow-bearing lord, whose gait is like a king of serpents, now enters the forest with his wife and with Lakṣmaṇa. For those who have never known such sorrow, abandoned to the forest by your consent at Kaikeyī’s urging, what fate awaits them there? “Deprived of wealth, still in their youth, exiled at the very prime of life, how will those wretched ones survive, living only on fruits and roots? If only now might be the end of my grief, if only I could see Rāghava here, together with his wife and his brother. “When will Ayodhyā, hearing that the two heroes have returned, become glorious again, its people rejoicing, its banners raised high? When, seeing those tiger-like men return from the forest, will the city be filled with joy, like the ocean at the full moon? “When will my mighty-armed son enter Ayodhyā, with Sītā before him in the chariot, like a bull with his herd of cows? When will the thousands of living beings on the royal road shower parched grain upon my two sons, the subduers of enemies, as they enter? When will I see my two sons, adorned with splendid earrings, entering Ayodhyā, their swords raised high, like twin-peaked mountains? “When will the joyful maidens with flowers and the twice-born with fruits, circling the city, perform auspicious rites as they enter? When will the righteous one, mature in wisdom and age, shining like a rain cloud, return, bringing delight like a good season? “Without doubt, O hero, I believe that in the past, because of some miserly woman, mothers’ breasts were cut off when they wished to suckle their children. I have been made, like a cow by a lion, a loving mother deprived of her calf; by Kaikeyī, O tiger among men, I have been rendered helpless, like a cow whose calf has been taken by force. “For how can I, who have but one son endowed with all virtues and learned in every scripture, endure life without my child?” Thus, through the long and sorrowful night, the king and queen lamented, their hearts bound together in grief for their beloved Rāma, longing for the day when joy might return to Ayodhyā.